


Chance Encounter

by DearSeptember



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Drabble, One-Shot, Other, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearSeptember/pseuds/DearSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty and stupid and reckless, he brings his knuckles to the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Encounter

               Twelve and brash and dumb, when he kisses her he earns a black eye and a day confined to his quarters. Sitting on a threadbare mattress he runs his tongue across his lips. The taste of honey lingers there. The taste of the thick, heavy tea given to the apprentices when ice begins to grip the waters of Lake Calenhad. Winter chills the tower to its bones. Lying back on the bed, he thinks the stuff tastes sweeter from someone else’s mouth.

               Fourteen and impulsive and fiery, he is pressed against a wall whose jagged bricks bite into the flesh of his palms. Someone else’s tongue is down his throat. It’s all teeth and hands, grunts and whispers. He doesn’t know his name, only that he smells like candlewax, tastes like cinnamon, and might be a few years older. Interrupted by the harsh clatter of approaching metal, the boy runs. Clumsy footsteps echo down the winding halls, growing fainter until they disappear entirely. Sinking to the floor he sits alone in the dark.

               Eighteen and scared and curious, the door unlocks with a deep clang. The man in front of him smiles. Though still a young enchanter, flecks of grey pepper sandy brown hair. Their lips meet when he smiles back. A voice in his head says he shouldn’t’ve kissed him, already tangled in damp sheets when the thought occurs. The morning brings warm sunlight through barred windows. A warm body against his own. Gentle words whispered against his hair. His stomach knots. That same voice asks him when he fell so hard.

               Twenty-four and selfish and jaded, they are using each other. Wordlessly hands dart beneath robes and armor. Thunder rumbling in the distance blankets their quiet sounds. The son of an Arl bedding an apostate. The thought was laughable to think anything more could come of it. But his heart twists nonetheless. Beneath his tongue he tastes the tang of sweat, the scent of dirt, and mud, and whatever else they had been running through earlier that day. More than friends, less than lovers, he takes what he can from the man. When morning comes he slips out of bed as quietly as he had arrived the night before.

               Thirty and weary and alone, he has tried to forget what it feels like to belong to someone. There is blood on his hands. Thoughts in his mind that are not his own. Cheek pressed to a faded, embroidered pillow he cries. He cries for the nameless girl who never kissed him back. Whom he had tried to comfort before her Harrowing, and who never returned from it. For the older apprentice who left him out of fear, then later called him a coward for trying to escape Kinloch Hold. He cries for Karl. For the person he loved first, and who no doubt loved him in return, but who could not follow where it was he went. And for Nathaniel who deserved more than just an occasional tumble, but had kept him company when he had no one else to call a friend despite having no duty to do so.

               Without meaning to, he cries for Hawke. For the person whose lips he had only tasted once, but whose laughter he can’t get out of his mind. For the person whom Justice calls a distraction, but helps his cause time and time again with no thought of reward. For the person who could destroy him with a single word, yet may be the only one capable of saving his life.

               Thirty and stupid and reckless, he brings his knuckles to the door.

 

              

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not to out-nerd myself here, I've been writing fan fiction for about nine years now. Having been all but immersed in Dragon Age for the last few months I figured it was time to post something related to it. That being said, I really hope you enjoyed my work! Comments, constructive criticism, questions, and prompts are always welcome.
> 
> Also I would like to thank one of my favorite DA fic authors, TCRegan, for looking this over before I posted it.


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